


Haunt

by AquaFontem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Because Sherlock loved Molly all along, Black Latex Thong, F/M, Jealous Sherlock, Starts Post-Reichenbach, You'll have to read it to find out, hair ruffle, spoilers for HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1419352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaFontem/pseuds/AquaFontem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has become a sort of pilgrimage, him visiting her flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunt

The first time he comes back, he has a broken nose.

 

She shrieks when she sees the blood on his face, drops her tea on the floor, where the mug shatters inches away from her bare feet.

 

Still, she jumps over the mess and pulls him into her flat, shutting the door behind him.

 

They haven’t said a word to each other, but he doesn’t want to open his mouth and allow the coppery taste of his own blood to contaminate it.

 

It means he can’t tell her that he’s sorry for showing up unannounced, that he wishes she didn’t have to see him like this.

 

She leads him to the couch, running back to the kitchen to soak a tea towel in cold water. He watches her as she wrings it over the sink, his gaze skimming over her figure, taking in the changes that have occurred since the last time he saw her.

 

She is thinner, and he doesn’t want to admit that it might be because of him. He’d told Mycroft to keep her informed, of course, but all she really knew was that he wasn’t dead yet. He didn’t suppose for a moment that this was enough to put her mind at ease, but he was afraid of telling her more out of the fear that it would make her a target.

 

She had already risked so much for him and Sherlock is adamant that he will protect her now instead.

 

He looks up at her as she cleans up his face, closing his eyes at the sensation of her hand on his cheek, steadying him as always.

 

She begins to examine his injury, her expression the same as all those times when he watched her performing autopsies through the window that looks into the morgue, unaware that she had an audience.

 

Except, she is not examining a dead body now, and this is largely due to her, even though she may be forever unaware of it.

 

She is explaining to him, quietly, that she will have to snap his nose back into place, warning him that it might hurt. He doesn’t exactly hear her, and he wonders if he has a concussion too.

 

Another part of his brain knows that he would be able to hear her perfectly if he tried; if he wasn’t so focused on memorising her face so that when he had to leave again, he could take a piece of her with him.

 

He nods once, to show her that he understands, and her fingers come up to cup his nose. He grips her hips, and she thanks him, because she thinks that it is to steady her. It isn’t.

 

It is painful, when she twists his nose back into place. They both hear the crack, and it’s sickening. But she doesn’t blanch, as he might have expected her to, and he is reminded again of how robust Molly Hooper is.

 

He is also reminded of his terrible habit of underestimating her, and he instantly feels guilty.

 

She takes his hand and he follows her to her tiny bathroom, sitting him down on the edge of the bath. She must have showered earlier, because it smells like her: strawberries, coconut and pomegranate. It is heady, and it is not helping. Still, he catalogues every scent, not pretending for a second that it is because he might need the information for a case.

 

She soaks a flannel with warm water, and she unbuttons his shirt so that the water doesn’t dampen it. He should probably just get a shower, but she knows without him having to tell her that he doesn’t have the energy for it.

 

He exhales sharply when her hand rests against his bare shoulder, but she seems to attribute it to the pain from his nose as the flannel eases around it. She apologises, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

He knows he has more to be sorry for.

 

In the morning, he wakes up in her bed fully clothed, his shoes placed neatly on top of the radiator in the corner where Toby can’t get to them.

 

She isn’t there, either in the bed or in the flat, and he knows that she has gone to work. There is a note in the kitchen that tells him to help himself to her food. She doesn’t say goodbye. She signs her name with a kiss at the end of the looped ‘y’. He puts the note in his pocket.

 

He won’t be there when she gets home.

 

A disposable phone will be on the kitchen table instead, with only one number loaded onto it.

 

******

 

The next time he visits, she’s at work, and the flat is empty.

 

He picks the lock (even though breaking in makes him slightly uncomfortable), and makes a mental note to tell Mycroft that she needs better security after discovering how easy it is to do.

 

He had watched her leave that morning from the park bench across the road. He had been disguised as a businessman from the solicitors firm down the road: a paper across his knees, thick glasses that obscured most of his face, slicked down hair, darker skin from his time in Budapest. She would have seen through the homeless-drunk disguise in a matter of seconds, but dressed like that: she had rushed past him without a flicker of a gaze in his direction.

 

Now he is alone, in her flat, surrounded by the organised mess that punctuated Molly. Her room in his mind palace is like this also, the only room without order and neat piles, and facts hidden away in cabinets and drawers. He opens the door and she is there, unrestrained and open to him, even when he doesn’t deserve it.

 

He sits on her sofa, looking carefully around him and deducing what her life had been like for the last year.

 

Even the handful of phone calls that he’s made to her, and one that she made to him, didn’t really shed light on what was going on, and she always talked about John, and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade instead of herself. At first he thought that she was being secretive, deliberately omitting what had been happening to her since they’d last spoken. That was before he realised that she only saw herself as a messenger, a third party narrator; that she thought he only called so that she could link him to the life that he’d left behind, until the time came for him to return to it.

 

He never told her that he only called to hear her voice.

 

Outside, he had told himself that he wanted to check she wasn’t in danger, to sweep the flat for any signs of intrusion that she might have missed.

 

Inside, he still can’t admit that he’s looking for signs that she might have moved on from him, that he’s most afraid of finding a picture of her and a stranger who is able to make her happy. Happier.

 

Then he catches sight of a new photo on the mantelpiece; and he’s more scared of who is in it than he can remember being in Beirut, when he was chased down an alleyway by two gunmen and had to double back away from a dead end.

 

He creeps closer to it, crouching in front of the fireplace, scrutinising the picture to make sure that it’s what he thinks it is.

 

It’s two years old, and he remembers the day it was taken: a day in February, when John had roped him into helping Mrs Hudson move everything out of 21C.

 

She’d had the ridiculous notion of renting out the flat beside hers, and had insisted that they clear it out in preparation for the decorators. The flat had been used for storage for so many years that it took several days to clear it out completely, but John had roped Sherlock into helping him, and, as it turned out, Molly too.

 

They hadn’t seen much of each other over the past few months, and he knew that she was avoiding him after that awful Christmas party. Any time they did encounter one another, she was as eager to help him as she had always been; but she was warier of him, more careful about what she revealed to him. He disliked it, even more so when he realised that she had succeeded in making herself harder to read. Not many people managed to hinder his deductions, but Molly Hooper had: and he’d forced her into it.

 

For most of the day, she had stayed out of his way, and he barely saw her at all. This was until John accused him of loitering by the skip instead of pulling his weight (he’d been _resting_ ) and frogmarched him to the door of the flat, pushing him in to pick up more junk.

 

And he’d found Molly, in 21C, alone, for the first time all day.

 

She hadn’t acknowledged his presence, merely nodding when he informed her that they should be finished soon. He’d stood awkwardly by the door, watching her back while she sorted through a box of vinyls.

 

For the first time in his life, he’d tried to break the silence, expressing his thoughts about the redecoration, and his deductions about Mrs Hudson’s friend Bertha (who had come over in the morning to borrow a knitting pattern and harassed John for over an hour about the tablets she was taking when she found out he was a doctor). Molly deflected it all with nods, shrugs and the occasional non-committal noise, unaware of how flustered he was getting, and how desperate he was for her to return to normal.

 

Then she screamed, and he was beside her before his brain even fully registered the noise.

 

‘What is it?’ He asked hurriedly, his hand hovering over her shoulder as if there was an invisible force preventing him from touching her. ‘Molly? What’s wrong?’

 

He watched her drag her hand slowly out of the box she was rooting through, something dangled on the end of her finger, although he couldn’t figure out what it was. Then she straightened it out, and recognition hit him so quickly that he rocked forwards to rest on his knees.

 

A black, latex thong. With a red spider on the crotch.

 

'Yours?' She asked, although he heard the mirth in her voice as she said it. He shook his head so vociferously that his neck hurt. 'John's?'   
  
'Christ, I hope not.'   
  
'Mrs Hudson?' She sounded simultaneously scandalised and amused, and the perfect balance of the two was what sent him over the edge.   
  
They collapsed into fits of laughter, as she flung the garment back onto the pile in disgust, tears streaming down her face.   
  
He had never seen anyone cry with laughter before. He much preferred it to the other kind of crying, where he was worried that he'd done something wrong and wouldn’t know how to fix it.   
  
But he had mainly liked seeing Molly Hooper crying with laughter. She looked happy, and she looked pretty when she was happy.

 

Sherlock could remember scolding himself when that thought occurred to him, but he wasn’t sure if he was telling himself off for thinking that Molly was pretty, or for thinking that she was only pretty when she was happy.   


John (he guessed it was John) had captured the moment when their initial laughter began to calm down, and Molly had caught his eye. She’d given him the first genuine smile in two months, and he’d finally felt truly forgiven.

 

He is so glad she has this; glad that it even exists. He produces his phone and takes a picture of it, although it looks incongruous on his camera roll next to ugly buildings that members of his homeless network had sent him, which housed the other members of Moriarty’s ring whom he had to track down.

 

Sherlock replaces the picture on the mantelpiece, leaving it an inch out of place in the hope that she would know that he’d seen it.

 

Then he scratches Toby on the ears, and walks out, shutting the door to her flat firmly behind him.    


******

 

He knocks the next time, fidgeting in the corridor, and trying to calm himself down because he doesn’t want her to think that he’s high.

 

He doesn’t know why he is so nervous, and he hopes she answers the door quickly so he doesn’t have to analyse it.

 

She already knows that he is back: he went to Bart’s in time for the end of her shift and waited in the locker room for her, stepping forwards so that she could see him in the mirror, drawing closer when she turned to face him.

 

She’d asked him if he’d finished, and he’d said yes; told her he was back for good, thanked her again for her help, for the phone calls. Then she’d smiled and kissed him on the cheek, taking him completely by surprise. He had stiffened and stared straight ahead when she pulled away, which he regretted now, wishing he’d made the most of her proximity, instead of letting her leave with the promise that she’d see him soon.

 

So he is here, keeping the promise for her, deciding that ‘soon’ should be 16 hours, give or take a few minutes depending on when she opens this door.

 

He knocks again, confused as to what was taking her so long. It’s Saturday, so she isn’t working: he wonders if he should try to pick the lock again, although Mycroft had a sturdier one fitted since his last visit.

 

The door swings open just as he is ready to pull out his picker, and he feels his heartbeat increase when she is on the other side.

 

He sees her before she sees him; her attention directed at something behind her, her face turned to something inside her flat. He doesn’t care what it is, focused only on the sight of her, using those secret seconds to take in the changes that he hadn’t noticed the day before.

 

She’s clearly not been up for very long, her hair tied up in a careless bun, wisps escaping the knot and falling around her face. She’s wearing a new necklace, or at least, one that he’s never seen before: a delicate silver chain that disappears into her loose shirt. It’s for a hockey team, which is strange, because she’s never played hockey before, but he doesn’t waste time dissecting it because it’s exposing her shoulder and it’s _distracting_.

 

Then he sees the shorts she’s wearing, and he is in real trouble now, because he’s never noticed her legs before, and his brain goes into overdrive as it processes this new information. They’re a lot nicer without the beige trousers that she is so fond of, and the image of them doesn’t quite leave his head when he tears his gaze away.

 

‘Sherlock?’ She looks surprised when she finally turns around, glancing uncomfortably into her flat and shifting on her feet. He doesn’t notice because he’s so glad that she missed him staring, brushing past her into the flat when she steps aside in silent acquiescence.

 

He heads straight for the living room, whirling around to face her with such force that his billowing coat scares Toby, who darts towards the kitchen with a distressed mewl.

 

Molly edges after him, and he observes her discomfort this time, wringing her hands in such a way that he is both hypnotised and concerned.

 

‘Wh-what are you doing here?’ She asks, and she is stuttering, even though hardly ever stutters around him anymore. He opens his mouth to reply (the speech on the tip of his tongue), when he sees it, and his lips snap shut.

 

The sunlight is glinting off it, which drew his attention to it initially, although the movement of her hands meant he was already in the right place. The ring is small (smaller than she deserves), but it’s simple, and his stomach twists when he realises that it looks like it belongs on her finger.

 

She must have taken it off for work yesterday, and hadn’t put it back on when he came to see her, otherwise he never would have come, wouldn’t have stayed up all-

 

He shakes his head sharply, trying to dispel the thoughts whirring around in his cursed head. Molly exactly resembles a deer caught in headlights, looking between him and her bedroom door with the speed of a cheetah.

 

‘Molly?’ A voice sounds from the bedroom, and both Molly and Sherlock stiffen, their eyes locking. His expression is unreadable, while hers is a mixture of remorse and alarm, neither of which he wants to see on her face.

 

It’s male, and while Sherlock may be oblivious to most social situations, he knows (even though he doesn’t want to) the meaning of this one.

 

‘Molly? Who was it, honey?’ Molly’s eyes close, sheer resignation on her face. They remain shut when she shouts back a reply.

 

‘It’s just Sherlock, he just wanted to…’ She looks at him, but he has totally shut down, and she sighs, aware that she will receive no help from him. ‘He just wanted to tell me something, but he’ll be gone in a minute.’

 

‘Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?’ Sherlock has only heard nine words from this man, and is already convinced that he’s an idiot.

 

‘Yes, Tom. Sherlock Holmes,’ her voice is impossibly patient, and she glances at him apologetically before walking to her bedroom and poking her head through the door.

 

He stays where he is for a while, listening to the whispering between the _couple_ in the bedroom. He garners that Tom was unaware that he was still alive, exasperation creeping into Molly’s voice when she reminds him that she explained everything the night before.

 

Sherlock wishes he didn’t have such good hearing when Tom tells her why he was too distracted to pay attention.

 

He’ll never be able to face her now, so he does what he should have done when he saw that fucking ring on her finger.

 

He leaves.

 

******

 

When he goes back, he doesn’t really go back at all, because he’s too much of a coward to do it properly.

 

He’s lying on his bed in Baker Street, resting against the headboard in total darkness.

 

Janine had fallen asleep an hour and twenty-five minutes ago, and Sherlock had never been more relieved to hear snoring than at that moment. That’s when Sherlock questions what he is doing with Janine, wishing that a fruit basket would have been enough to get him into Magnusson’s office. He wants his bed back: although he doesn’t necessarily want to keep it empty.

 

That line of thought eventually depresses him, so he drifts, but his mind takes him to Molly’s anyway, and he is too fatigued to tell it that he doesn’t want to go there: that he never wants to go there again.

 

Then he sees her- sitting in the armchair beside her fireplace, her legs beneath her, and a serene expression on her face- and suddenly he never wants to leave.

 

A wineglass is resting on the armrest, but it is empty, so she is simply tracing the shape of it with her fingers. A book is propped in her lap, and her eyes flick over the words, her mouth forming ghosts of smiles and frowns as she becomes more absorbed in the story.

 

She looks similar to when he was last there, her hair in the same bun, strands still falling over her face and down her neck. It should frustrate him, the messiness, but he likes to follow the gentle waves that surround her face, meandering down her collarbone and floating slightly whenever she turns a page.

 

She isn’t wearing the hockey shirt this time, and Sherlock realises with a clench in his stomach that the button-down she has on is his. The sleeves fall well past her wrists, so she’s rolled them up to her elbows, shaking her arms occasionally when the material slips.

 

She also isn’t wearing Tom’s ring, and time stands still as he stares at her bare hand.

 

Sherlock wants so badly to put himself in there with her, but his mind can’t seem to conjure the image: as if it too knows that he doesn’t belong with her.

 

He edges himself down beside Janine, who mumbles in her sleep and flails her arms.

 

This is why, he thinks bitterly: this is why Molly Hooper will never fit in his life the way he wants her to.

 

He should have stayed away from the drugs. Sent a fruit basket instead of asking for a date. Told his pathologist why a dead man kept calling her. Told her why her flat was frequented by the most alive ghost of all time.

 

He eases himself gently onto his side, taking up an eighth of the bed (Janine is a bed hog, as well as a snorer).

 

Molly’s flat fades in his mind as he allows sleep to claim him, but he still dreams that she is sitting in the corner of his room, in her armchair, reading out loud to him while Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata sounds from a gramophone beside her.

 

******

 

It has taken him three years, seven months and fourteen days to get here.

 

Once again, he arrives as someone who should be dead.

 

But he wasn’t dead then, and he isn’t dead now, his exile lasting all of four minutes before his plane is turned around and he is carted off by Mycroft, in a car with James Moriarty’s face paused in the console.

 

It takes him several hours to get himself away from MI6, who fire questions at him about the ring he spent two years unpicking, insinuating that he failed in some way, that he had missed something. And all this from the country that tried to send him to his death earlier that same day. Sherlock isn’t sure of the exact definition of politeness, but he is certain that this behaviour does not comply with it.

 

He raises his hand to the doorbell, cupping his hand over it, suddenly unsure of what he can possibly say to her when she answers the door.

 

He knows she is safe, because Mycroft sent some men to collect her from Bart’s, and he saw them guarding her flat when he snuck in through a loose grille at the back of the building, exposing flaws in her security while keeping the fact that he is here secret from his brother. He knows she is inside this flat, so he can take his time, but he finds that he doesn’t want to delay anymore, now that there are no excuses for why he shouldn’t do this.

 

He presses the bell, and the seconds that he waits go by painfully slowly.

 

The last time they saw each other, she’d known that he was not coming back more instinctually than even John, stepping into his arms without him saying a word. He’d buried his nose in her hair, sure that he would never see her again, and settled for committing the feel of her to memory. He had gone with the intention of telling her how he felt, but she was heartbroken enough completely oblivious, and it would have been cruel to confess himself then, when it was too late.

 

Now they will all of the time in the world, he will make sure of it, because if there is one thing Molly deserves, it is time.

 

He hears her unlock her door, and he ruffles his hair, shoving his hands into his coat pockets and watching the door swing open.

 

The minute it does, her eyes are on his, and there is a split second where she takes him in, makes sure he is real, for what he hopes will be the last time.

 

‘Sherlock,’ she exhales his name, and it sounds so natural that he wonders if she whispers it every time she breathes out.

 

Then she throws herself at him, fastening her arms around his neck as his hands reflexively encircle her waist.

 

He can feel her wet cheeks against his skin, so he hugs her tighter, his nose in her hair, her sobs muffled against his shoulder.

 

He cups her face when she pulls away, brushing away the last few tears, as she looks up at him with those soulful brown eyes of hers, which tell him everything, when she lets them. He can never quite deduce her without them, and in this she is completely unique: the only one who is able to control what he can see.

 

Sherlock sees with a clench in his stomach that no one told her that he got off that plane; realises that for hours she had been kept in the dark, convinced that he was no longer around to challenge the threat that Moriarty posed.

 

What is more painful is the fact that she believed it: that she thought he would leave her to face this on her own after everything that she had done for him.

 

Not even Mycroft and the whole of the British Government could have prevented him from coming back to Molly Hooper.

 

So he gives her the best guarantee of his dedication that he can think of, pressing his lips to hers, an arm around her waist bringing her even closer.

 

He kisses her passionately, the hand on her cheek tangling into the soft waves at the nape of her neck.

 

This kiss is the likeliest way that his tongue will be able to communicate just how much he’s wanted to do this since he came back a year ago, and he hopes she understands everything that he cannot put into words.

 

They pause occasionally, taking a few gulps of air before their mouths meet again, because they are unwilling to part now that they have begun.

 

Their height difference means he has to stoop to reach her, and after a while his neck begins to complain, so he lifts her in one fluid motion, and she immediately wraps her legs around his waist.

 

Sherlock walks them forwards into her flat, moving down to kiss her neck as he goes, kicking the door closed behind him. She lets out a surprised moan as his lips and tongue travel across her skin, her hands tugging gently on his curls in such a way that he hopes she never stops.

 

He presses her against her door, and they bounce off the walls before he sets her down on the sideboard in her hall. He sucks marks near her collarbone, his hand slipping under her jumper to feel the heated skin there.

 

She whispers his name, and he wouldn’t be able to find a symphony to rival that sound. He’s suddenly afraid that he’ll say something stupid, that he’ll tell her that he loves her, so he captures her mouth again, because feelings have always scared him, and he’s not ready to face up to his yet.

 

His Belstaff hits the floor, followed by his blazer, and he can feel her fingers gliding between his shoulder blades through his shirt. There is barely an inch of space between them, but he finds that it is not nearly enough to satisfy his need for her, and he wonders vaguely if anything ever will.

 

Then she begins to unbutton his shirt, and he stops wondering, stops thinking, focusing on the way she ghosts over his abdominal muscles. He takes the first opportunity to pull her sweater over her head, growling when he sees that she is wearing only her bra underneath.

 

She grins at him, and he smiles back against her lips when she kisses him again.

 

He protests when she slides away, about to ask if she’s going to leave him literally aching for her, when she slides her shorts off, spinning around to throw them in his direction. He raises a hand to catch them, but his mouth has gone dry from the sight of her in her underwear, and he misses them by an embarrassing distance.

 

She begins to walk backwards to her bedroom, barely taking a step before he follows her. His shirt is shrugged off his shoulders on the way, and she swallows at the sight of his bare torso, while he kicks off his shoes carelessly. Then his hands go to his belt buckle, and she crashes against her bedroom door, stuck in place as she watches him drop his trousers to the floor.

 

When he is close enough, she grapples for the handle, but he catches her in his arms before she crosses the threshold, bringing her lips to meet his. Their momentary separation has made him desperate for the taste of her, so he rediscovers her mouth while he guides her backwards to her bed. They fall back onto it, her underneath him, and her hands slip into the waistband of his boxers as he moves her into the middle of the mattress, his mouth tracing a path down to the lacy edge of her bra.

 

He works the cup down, latching his lips onto the hardened nipple beneath the material, his hands skimming down her sides, leaving goose bumps on her skin. She arches her back, and he takes the invitation to undo the bra clasp, flinging the garment away without removing his mouth. He is led by her sighs as he works both of her breasts into pebbled peaks; her nails raking down his back, making his shoulders tingle under her touch.

 

Sherlock murmurs her name as he kisses down her stomach, swirling his tongue around her belly button and smiling at the loudest moan that she has emitted so far. His teeth catch on her knickers, and he pulls them down her legs, his fingertips dragging them off completely when he gets sidetracked by her exposed core.

 

Her scent is intoxicating, so he brings his face closer, the bridge of his nose accidentally brushing against the centre of her nerves, causing her to almost roll off the bed. He steadies her with a firm grip on her hips, pinning her to the bed as he darts his tongue out to taste her for the first time.

 

She is so wet, and he experiences a carnal sense of pride at the fact that he did this to her. Molly has made him more human in so many ways, and this animalistic urge for her is one such change. His cock is harder than it has ever been, and it’s almost throbbing as he explores her with his mouth, her impending orgasm signalled by the way she is writhing above him. Before he lets her go, he eases a finger into her, follows it with another, curling them inside her while his tongue swirls around her clitoris.

 

She screams his name when she comes, and he lifts his head as her thighs clench, pressing kisses to her abdomen as he waits for her to come down. The hands in his hair pull him up to her, and she kisses him lazily, unwilling to release him even while she is recovering.

 

Then she begins to ease his boxers down, and he knows that she is ready, kicking his pants away and pressing his length fully against her. They both moan at the sensation, and he buries his head into her neck, his hands cupping her arse to bring her even closer.

 

Molly reaches wildly for her bedside table, knocking various objects to the ground in her search for a condom, letting out a triumphant hum when her fingers closed around a foil wrapper. She tries to flip them over, but he pins her down, his limited patience now thoroughly non-existent. She’ll have plenty of time to do whatever she wants to him; but right now Sherlock only wants to bury himself in her, and the sooner this happens, the better.

 

He tears open the condom and rolls it on, aligning their bodies so that the tip of his shaft teases her opening. He looks at her through heavily lidded eyes, searching her face for permission, given wholeheartedly as she traces his cheekbone with her forefinger.

 

He thrusts slowly into her, and nothing could have prepared him for how she feels. She is tight, and wet, and the empty space inside him that he’d only just realised was there begins to fill as he moves inside her.

 

‘Oh, Sherlock.’ He decides that she is the only one who should ever be allowed to say his name, while she murmurs words of encouragement in his ear. He quickens his pace, glad that what she is asking complies with his slipping self-control, bringing her knee over his hip so that he can plunge deeper into her.

 

He presses erratic kisses to the top of her chest, damp with perspiration, and his mouth is dominated by the saltiness of her skin, while the lingering perfume on her neck governs his nostrils. Every sense is taken over by her, his sensitivity to his surroundings so heightened that it is wholly instinctive when his hand moves down to where they are joined.

 

There is a tightening in his stomach and he hopes she is as close as he is, brushing his thumb over her centre while he sucks her pulse point.

 

Then he feels her clench around him, and she comes undone with a cry, her thighs digging beautifully into his hips. He looks down at her, takes in her swollen lips and blown pupils, and this is all it takes for him to follow her over the edge, saying her name like a prayer.

 

He collapses on her, immediately trying to roll off for fear of crushing her, but she keeps him in place, his head resting on her chest as they ride out the waves together.

 

They adjust their positions after a while, and they end up facing each other, their legs tangled together under the sheet that he pulls over them. Her eyes are drifting shut, and he traces words into her skin, words that would probably make her blush if she knew what they were. He grins when it occurs to him that it would be very difficult for her to blush after what they had just done.

 

‘Molly,’ he whispers, and she makes a slightly grumpy sound, clearly questioning why he chose now for a conversation. His smile widens, edging his face closer to hers on the pillow. ‘I want you to know…’ He swallows, and he wishes she could read his mind instead, because this is harder than he thought.

 

‘What? Sherrrrlock? M’tired.’ She sounds adorable, and he curses her for it, because he is now utterly tongue-tied.

 

‘You’re beautiful,’ he says, kissing her forehead and nuzzling her nose with his. Then he turns away, content to let her sleep, and save his confessions for the morning.

 

But her small arms slide around him, crossed over his chest as if they are falling together, and she is holding on for dear life. He can feel her breath against his neck, her lips so close to his ear that he can hear vibrations when she speaks.

 

‘Sherlock,’ she sounds so at ease, her voice like syrup, and he has to fight to stay awake for the first time in a very long time. ‘I love you.’ He presses a kiss to her palm, tugging on her arms so that her front is right against his back. Then he waits until her breathing evens out, warm against the back of his neck.

 

‘I love you, Molly Hooper.’

 

She sighs in her sleep, but he knows that she doesn’t hear him.

 

But it doesn’t matter, because Sherlock will spend his whole life making sure that she does hear him eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry that this was so long, but thank you so much for reading! You deserve nothing less than Benedict Cumberbatch in a tight purple shirt for that, and Benedict Cumberbatch shirtLESS if you choose to give kudos or leave a comment... ;)


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